


The Ballad of Misery and Madness

by basketcasewrites



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Always, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Descent into Madness, Guilt, Gun Violence, Hospitals, I Love You, M/M, Madness, Misery, One Shot, Pain, The Author Regrets Everything, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10698408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: "The clicking of the seconds hand on the clock seemed to mock him, taunting his descent further into a world of madness entirely of his own creating..."Everywhere Wade turns all he is reminded of is Peter.





	The Ballad of Misery and Madness

Wade had blood on his hands. Peter's blood. 

And it did not matter how hard he scrubbed away at them , the red remained. Staining his skin permanently. Marking him as criminals would be marked in ancient era's long gone. Labelling him for what he was: a murderer. 

"Do you see it too?" he stumbled through the city, shoving his hands into the face of stranger after bewildered stranger, asking this one question. His voice much too high, dazed, uncontrolled; the voice of a madman. "Do you see it too? Do you see it too?"

They'd shake their heads, eyes wide in fear. Shake their heads, back away slowly, hands raised in surrender, "Sorry, sir. We don't see anything. There's nothing there."

Am I going crazy? was the first thing that ran through his mind, staring down at his hands covered in thick blood. Dark crimson, dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.

You've always been crazy, was the next.  
An honest answer; one that angered him. One that worked to boil a devastating misery into unadulterated fury.

Anger overtook him. It was the rage, the ire, that had begun ripping apart their apartment, not him. He was no longer in control.  
Your apartment, came the hushed reminder -- for once having the decency to sound morose. You. All on your lonesome.  
He clutched at his head, screaming out loud, guttural noises that came from somewhere deep inside him. From a dark cavernous place he had within that he had never reached before.  
His screams did not quiet, only growing louder. If he knew what he was he was doing -- had even the slightest bit of his sanity intact -- he did not stop himself.  
He stalked through their apartment, touching everything, seeing Peter everywhere. Peter, laying on the couch. Peter, reading a book. Peter, making dinner. Peter, sitting in front of the window. Peter, two fresh mugs of coffee in his hands.

"Hey, gorgeous," he said, holding out a cup to Wade. "I'm going to have to take a break for awhile -- doctor's orders."

"You're okay!" Wade smiled at him through the tears. "You're here and you're okay!"

"Yeah, I'm okay. And of course I'm here, where else would I be?" he laughed that sweet, beautiful and entirely Peter Parker laugh. Wade laughed too, he had feared -- feared as he had never feared anything before -- that he would never hear that laugh again.

He raced forward, rejoicing. His arms outstretched he reached for Peter, all he wanted was to envelope him in a hug. Peter's body was cold against his own -- freezing. And, like those last minutes of a dream, those moments where everything goes hazy and you feel yourself thrust back into every aching second of reality, he felt Peter disappear. Slipping from his arms, out of the window -- a soul into the night. Jolted into awareness, Wade realised he had not been there at all.

 

Wade held onto Peter's hoodie -- his favourite one, the one he always wore, the one that still smelled exactly like him. He hugged it to his chest, burying his face into the thick material. Breathing in the scent of fabric softener, sweat and the city that clung to everything that Peter owned. Had owned, one of the boxes corrected. He didn't know who. He could no longer tell the difference. They sounded much like him, their voices disrupted by anguish, ruined by pain.

We're sorry, came the voice that sounded hollow, an echo. As if they were both speaking together. We miss him too. 

He wanted to ignore them, tried to. He held the hoodie to his face, delusioning himself into believing it was Peter he was embracing until he fell into a fitful, restless sleep.

 

He haunted the walls of their apartment -- of his apartment. A ghost haunting the very grounds that he had died in -- a mere memory of the man he used to be. He had become a part of this apartment, a tree that had rooted so far under the earth that moving it would be impossible. 

 

Everywhere that he looked he saw his guilt reflected back to him, painted on all that he had touched -- the sheets that they had slept wrapped in night after night, the walls that they had painstakingly painted, the pictures that Peter had had framed, the flowers Peter insisted on always having, the letters of love that they would still write to each other long after they had moved in together, the books, the dishes, the floor, the ceiling. Everything. Crimson handprints, dripping menacingly, adorned the apartment. Look what you have done, they seemed to whisper, turning pointed glances his way. Look at what you have done.

"I'm sorry, Pete. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. So, so, so, so sorry," he repeated to himself, to anyone listening, only holding himself together by reciting the mantra. Seeking forgiveness from a spirit that was neither vengeful nor hateful, a spirit that watched over him. Accusing him. 

 

Soon, it was not long, before sleep wouldn't come. Nights where he would hold the hoodie pressed to his face, inhaling the fading scent like a junkie inhaling the next line of coke. For hours he'd lay, clutching onto the garment as if it were a lifeline which, in many ways, it just might have been. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep that never came. 

He cradled his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. He didn't keep the lights on, preferred the solitude of darkness over everything else. The increasing handprints did not haunt him here -- they were not able to be seen in the inky blackness. 

We miss him, the boxes whined in unison.  
Their voices distant, as skeletal as Wade had become over the past months.

"I know," he said aloud, hoarse from his hours of mindless crying. "Me too."

 

He blamed himself. Of course, he did: it was all his fault. 

He had kissed Peter and said, "It'll be fun -- couple of scumbags with a taste for guns! I dare you to tell me that it won't be worth it! Please, baby boy... It'll be such an easy mission too, I swear. In and out -- ten minutes at most. C'mon, Petey-pie... Don't you trust me? You know that I'll protect you no matter what."

Peter hadn't wanted to go. He was still healing from the last time: he was terrified that if he pushed himself too hard then he wouldn't be able to fight anymore. Wade had insisted, sure that it would be one of the easiest missions they would have. He had promised to keep Peter safe, to protect him. And what had he done? Precisely the opposite. He had broken the last promise he had ever made to Peter. He had failed to protect him. He had failed.

The day was still vivid in his mind, remembers each soul-shattering moment as clearly as if it were right before his eyes.

His heartbeat thudding in his ears, drowning out all other sound. He swore that he had heard the trigger being pulled, the shot itself made barely a sound -- the silencer fitted on the gun doing exactly what it had been made for. He had seen the bullet flying past him, heading towards Peter. He had yelled out, trying to get Peter's attention; to warn him to swing out of the way, shove the other guy in front of him, catch the bullet in his hand, something. Wade was desperate. Peter had just begun to turn at the sound of his name when the bullet hit. 

Berzerk: that was the word he would use to describe how he had acted. He had seen the bullet ripple through Peter's flesh, tear apart his abdomen maliciously. Wade saw red. Then, his swords were out. Savagely, he cut through each of the men, saving the one that had shot at Peter for last. The warehouse, disgusting to begin with, was littered with the mutilated bodies of the men. It had taken him seconds. 

Wade dropped his swords, the sound of metal hitting against metal echoing through the room. He ran to Peter's side, dropping to his knees in defeat. Pulling Peter's mask off he laid the boys' head on his lap, gently cradling him. Peter's eyes fluttered open, a wry smile playing on his lips. Already, he seemed far away and that scared Wade more than the blood flowing from his wound did. 

"Hey, baby boy," Wade whispered, pulling off his own mask with his one hand and running the other shaking hand through the messy brown hair. He pressed against the bullet wound, applying pressure. "Hey. I'm going to call the ambulance, baby boy, okay?"

Peter reached out shakily, placing his hand on top of Wade's, stopping him from pulling out the burner phone.

"Wade..." Peter said, the word garbled. His mouth filled with blood, bubbling up and trickling down his chin. His eyes weren't focused, as if he were looking at Wade and somewhere not behind, but beyond him. "You promised me... No killing... Remember?"

"I remember, Peter. And you can beat the crap out of me tomorrow," he laughed, choking back his tears. "Now, I'm going to get you to a hospital."

"We both know..." he stopped, swallowing. "I won't be here tomorrow," he smiled, showing blood-stained teeth. 

"Don't say that, baby boy. Don't speak like that. You still gotta beat me up, remember?" he smiled at Peter, his smile strained, lopsided. "It'll be hot."

"Wade, I love you. I love you," his voice was stern, his grip on Wade's hand tightening. "Always."

"I know, baby boy. I know. I love you too," he leaned down, kissing Peter on the forehead. "I love you, too. I love you, too."

He held on to Peter, feeling his body tense, stiffen before it relaxed completely. Feeling as Peter's chest lurched one last time and he breathed his final breath. Wade held the shell to his chest, hugging him close. He looked down at Peter's face: the colour draining from his skin, his mouth agape, eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping.

Wade stared down at him, unblinking. He didn't stop himself now, letting the floogates open. Waves of comprehension and nausea hit him. Burning in his throat, he let out loud yell -- one akin to that of an animal.

With great care he put Peter's mask on for him, his hands trembling. He cradled him in his arms holding him close to his chest as he would have held onto an infant or child.  
He carried Peter across the city, his tears clammy on his skin underneath the mask. Eyes stinging, breath hitching, body shivering. He stood outside the hospital building, placing his dead body respectfully on the entrance step.

"Always," he whispered to Peter, hoards of nurses and doctors already heading towards them. "Always."  
He glanced down at himself, stiffening at the sight of the still wet blood on his gloved hands, on his suit.

 

The clicking of the seconds hand on the clock seemed to mock him, taunting his descent further into a world of madness entirely of his own creating. He lay on his back in the living room, far away from the sun beginning to peek through a slit in the curtain. His body shaking from recounting the memory. 

We miss him, the boxes were insistent. We want to be with him. We want to be with Peter. 

Wade nodded. He wanted to be with Peter too. 

 

Wade stood at the edge of the building's roof, his back to the road. The breeze was light, fluttering his clothes. It brought with it, besides the many undistinguishable smells of the city, the sweet scent of Peter's favourite flowers -- a type he knew by sight, but always forgot the name of. He closed his eyes, inhaling softly. With every fibre of his being he missed Peter. He hated having to live without him and to live with the guilt.

He spread his arms out beside him, holding them out like some kind of mock Jesus. He leaned backwards, relishing in those first moments when his feet had left the roofs' edge. 

Wade had down this before, killing himself simply because it didn't matter, because he couldn't die. This time, however, was different. This time held a certain finality about it that he couldn't deny.

The wind rushed pass his falling body, making the whooshing sound that was comforting while being deafeningly loud.  
Then, as suddenly as it had began he felt it coming to an end. Abruptly, his body smacked against the cement roof of a much shorter building. The loud cracking sound ringing in his ears; the sound of each of his bone breaking into minute particles.

He felt dizzy, light-headed. Could slowly feel himself losing all consciousness. The cacophonic chattering of the boxes continued in his head, growing worse, causing his head to ache even more.

Somewhere beyond the noise in his head he heard a voice calling out to him. It came from a foreign depth within him; beyond the constant voices bound to him for eternity. It was much more like his soul. Peter's voice from within him. Roiling over him in bouts of all encompassing warmth. 

"Wade," Peter whispered, his voice quieting the one's in Wade's head. The voice as clear as if Peter were right beside him; closer, even. Curling around him, a warm embrace. "I am here. Always."

Wade knew that it was true.


End file.
